Draw Like Dad

Before cancer took his mind, my dad could draw with colored pencils like no one else. It is true. Others have said so that he was the best. I have known many artistic people who could draw, paint and even create decent, good-looking art out of say toilet paper rolls. Though all of that art was creative and beautiful, my dad had the detail down with his pencils and an art board. He could draw celebrities, music stars and sports stars with ease. He had his own touch.

I cannot speak for my dad, but I know he wanted more time to live, create, and share his love. What I saw is how he lost his ability to draw, write and to remember just weeks before he passed away at the age of sixty-four. I knew him well and I could only guess what was going on inside his mind as he lost these life-long abilities. Here is what I gathered.

Most spring mornings, with the birds singing and the trees fuller, he sat in a white chair on the porch before mom took him to his chemo and radiation appointments at the hospital. This time he had more free time because he decided to end treatment. His cancer spread.

My vibrant two year old daughter and I came over to visit and I noticed how he starred at the trees on the hill like those trees would be there forever. He looked at his granddaughter and smiled a small smile. His pale lips were extremely dry and his head was completely bald. He was gaunt. His Irish eyes seemed to turn blue during these seven months when he was diagnosed with stage four lung cancer. The cancer had spread to his brain. Dad wanted to go inside the house. It took a minute so my little one happily stepped inside first and said “Grandma!” Then I helped dad walk into the living room because he could not get up right away and his legs and feet were hurting. He was starting to forget how to walk as well. I could tell because he hesitated when he stood up. Inside, he sat in his big, brown recliner and let out an “ooh that hurt.”

“What can I do?

My mother came in. “I’ll get you the heating pad.”

“Okay. Your mother’s got it.” dad said.

“Dad, did you have anything today for breakfast? I can get you something.”

“No. I’m alright. I just had my coff..ee” He had almost forgotten the word coffee. Every morning, he loved his coffee. This is when we all knew dad could never be the same.

Later that afternoon, he wanted to work on a sports picture that he had not finished. He used to tell my sister and me when we were growing up that “an artist’s work is never done.” He was possibly a perfectionist, but, as of that moment, he wanted to finish the detail on Maz, his favorite Pittsburgh baseball player from the 1960’s. He could not hold his gold pencil to finish the letter P on Maz’s uniform. I thought about it. I did not help him hold the pencil. I did not want to overstep or make dad feel worse that he could not do what he had done so effortlessly in the past. As long as he could remember and for many years he created pieces that stunned everyone just by being able to pick up a pencil and draw. His artistic life was far from easy and he was dismissed from art school because of poor attendance due to drinking heavily. For his alcoholism, dad must have carried around this sadness and a little regret. Nevertheless, he continued drawing and even with the cancer he was willing to give it a try to draw. Sadly, he just could not grab the gold pencil anymore.

So if he could not draw, then also he could not write. He liked to write notes so that he could remember what he wanted to get done around the house. Usually, his handwriting was crisp, but at that moment his script resembled a kid’s handwriting. Dad saw that many things were changing for the worse and, facing death, those abilities were the least of his worries. Dad knew his time was limited. Maybe he just wanted to give drawing or even writing notes one last try.

Then dad fell asleep. The family Beagle that was inside and outside all day, came over to lay down on the arm of the chair with Dad. To my surprise, my daughter decided to pile a bunch of teddy bears and other stuffed animals on top of her grandfather while he was napping on the comfy, brown chair. She giggled and I told her to pile them on me instead. She started piling the stuffed animals on me and dad woke up with a confused look on his face. He did not understand why there were so many toys on top of him. He was a little upset and told me to get them off of him. He said he was itchy.

“Please get these off of me. I am itchy now.” dad seemed frustrated with me for letting this pile-up occur.

“Here. They are gone.”

“Sorry, I just don’t feel well.” dad apologized.

My mom entered the room. She noticed dad’s discomfort and she took his pulse and his blood pressure. At home, mom was his nurse and she did everything she could to make him feel at peace in his last days. Mom knew exactly what he needed and he was back to sleep.

The next dad, dad’s quality of life diminished. The morning before he died, he attempted to hold his coffee mug, but he could not hold it and the coffee spilled on the couch and on the floor.

“I’m sorry.” He told my mother and my sister. After that, dad could not stand up, he could not eat and he stopped speaking. In a hospital bed, in the living room, dad took his last breath on June 11, 2022. I was not there. My mother and sister were there and I had made peace with not being there when he passed away. I did see him the night before and his eyes were shut. Earlier when he was first diagnosed, dad and I had spoken that no matter what, everything would be okay.

In a way, his talent survived because even though we have many unfinished works of art, these gems showed determination to keep going when bad things happened to a good man. That was dad.